


You Are Jack Weston

by GlassScaffolding



Category: Suspects (TV)
Genre: Cannonical underage relationship, F/M, Jack/Rose is not the centre of this piece, Second Person, Second person POV, They're both teenagers it's not a scandal
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-19
Updated: 2018-02-19
Packaged: 2019-03-21 12:13:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,695
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13740630
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GlassScaffolding/pseuds/GlassScaffolding
Summary: You are Jack Weston, and suddenly you remember what it was like to be thirteen, nineteen, twenty two, twenty seven. You are Jack Weston, and this is how your life was laid out.





	You Are Jack Weston

**Author's Note:**

> I hate second person POV but this story wrote itself in second person and refused to exist in another form.  
> I always wanted to know about Jack's story. You get so many tidbits but not enough to create a full picture. This is a version I like. A mild amount of blaming Rose for what happened what they were teenagers. Sorry, not sorry.

You are thirteen years old. Your brother has taken to locking himself in the bathroom every five minutes screaming about the Garda keeping tabs on him. Well, that mightn’t be the paranoid schizophrenia but just because your policeman da likes to know what you’re up to it doesn’t mean the entire Garda is keeping their eyes on your little brother.

You are thirteen years old, and your dad spends more time at work than ever. He blames it on the Dáil Éireann, on the Troubles, on the rise of crime in Ireland, but you’re not an idiot, and you can’t call him out on it either; after all, that would make you a hypocrite.

You are thirteen years old. You leave earlier than you need to go to school in the mornings, and stay late in the library doing your homework. Maybe you shouldn’t abandon your mother with your raving little brother but it’s not your fault that he talks to people that aren’t there and insists that everyone is out to get him.

You are thirteen years old. You carry the weight of your father’s misactions. You won’t carry your brother with you too.

 

You are fourteen years old, and you’re in love. She’s called Rose, she’s one and a bit years older than you, and she’s beautiful. She listens to what you say, about your da, and your little brother Michael, and about the way your parents have to go outside to argue or everyone will listen in. Rose invites you round to her house and you chat and she tells you about her brother and how he lets her go round to his house when her parents are being awkward or she wants to watch something rated 18. He seems cool.

You are fourteen years old. You spend most evenings in Rose’s older brother’s garage. He does something else beside fixing cars, but you don’t bother to find out what. You and Rose hang out in the sitting room upstairs while he works and has meetings in the office. Sometimes he asks Rose to make deliveries for him, and you go with. Car parts or something. You ride your bikes, and you wait at the end of the road while Rose goes on. Sometimes you meet come of your da’s colleges. They ask you what you’re doing and you tell them, even show them the twenty whole euro that Rose’s brother gave you just for taking a bike ride with Rose, something you’d do for free. The officers laugh and tell you that one day you’ll have to get a proper job. You tell them that you’ll join the Garda. They seem to think that’s even funnier. They drive on, and then Rose comes back. She seems pleased. To the shop? You ask. She nods. You buy a cheap DVD and some tayto crisps, and say goodbye before heading home. You are fourteen years old, and you can almost forget about life beyond Rose.

 

You are fifteen years old. Rose is sixteen, and she’s your girlfriend too. You hang out all over the place now; in the park, at the shopping centre, at the cinema. She’s even been over to your house, once or twice, when your brother was having a quiet day. She seems nervous, but you tell her that your ma doesn’t bite, and neither does Michael, even when he’s having a bad day. What about your Da? She asks half-jokingly, but you tell her that he probably won’t be home ‘til late. He never is.

You are fifteen years old, and you are not a virgin. Some of the boys in your class would probably brag about it, but it doesn’t seem like the right thing to do, especially because it’s Rose. You don’t use condoms because you’re both in the same situation, so to speak, so it doesn’t seem necessary. It’s always at Rose’s house, because it’s the only place where it’s ever quiet.

You are fifteen years old, and you don’t know it yet, but you are still as naive as you were as a child. It’s not until the Garda bursts down the door of Rose’s brother’s garage that you begin to wake up. You don’t lie to them. You never do. They ask you your name and you tell them the truth. They ask you about Rose and you tell them the truth. They ask you about the packages, and you tell them what you think is the truth. They don’t believe you. They tell you that they were filled with drugs. You are starting to believe them.

You are fifteen years old. You are in the station, waiting to see if you are going to be charged with anything. They won’t let you see your father. You don’t know what is happening to Rose.

You are fifteen years old, and this is how your case is laid out. The brother of your girlfriend is a drug dealer. He paid you to go with Rose while she delivered drugs. She knew everything. You knew nothing. Luckily, this is the truth. It’s what Rose tells them too, and your finger prints, although they are all over the garage, are nowhere on the drugs or in the office. Rose’s brother admits to telling Rose to befriend you. You were a distraction, he explains, and a good one, because you never had to lie.

You are fifteen years old, and your world has fallen apart. Rose has just been sentenced to three years and you never want to see her again. Her brother’s in for even longer, not that you care. You are fifteen years old, and somehow you are off scot-free. Not even a mark in your record. Still, your parents decide to move about fifty miles north. They say it’s to be closer to specialist care for Michael but you know that it’s only part of the truth.

 

You are sixteen years old. You are working hard in school. You try hard to forget Rose Harris and the relationship you had with her. Your parents wanted you to take a transition year but the last thing you needed was more time to think.

You are sixteen years old, and have not spoken to Rose Harris in almost nine months. When a nurse asks her for the name of the father of her daughter, your name ghosts on her lips. I don’t know, she lies, but my daughter’s name is Lucy.

 

You are eighteen years old, and you are leaving Senior Cycle with better Leaving Certs than either of your parents before you. You have a place to study Law and Criminal Justice at university, but your father presses something into your hands at the end of the ceremony – an application form to join the Garda. You fill it out that night, then fold it up. You go to uni in the autumn, the form pressed in your back pocket. You bring it everywhere now. It’s a reminder of where you are heading.

You are eighteen years old. You have no idea that your old girlfriend and your daughter have just moved across the sea, to a place where no one knows their names. To a place where the noise of prison cannot follow them.

 

You are nineteen years old, the Garda form is with you, and you still live at home. It’s not that difficult to get to uni in the mornings; your mother spends the majority of the time with your brother, so it’s not like she needs the car. Your dad walked out last night after Michael barricaded himself into his room for the fourth day in a row, saying that the Taoiseach was watching him. You want to believe that he’ll be back but you’re not an idiot, and you can’t call him out on it either. After all, that would make you a hypocrite.

You are nineteen years old. You pack your bag for uni as usual, and another. You tell your mother that you are going to go to the gym after class. You are not lying, but you aren’t telling the whole truth either. You leave her a voice mail that evening. You are going to stay with friends. You’ll be back if you can. You think about telling your dad, but there’s no point.

You are nineteen years old. You fall asleep on an old sofa in an already over-crowded flat, not knowing that somewhere out there, it is your daughter’s third birthday.

 

You are nineteen years old, and it has been three days since you were last home. It probably would be longer but you went to mass today and the Father was talking about family and abandonment and hard times and you try not to perpetuate stereotypes but the guilt hits you.

You are nineteen years old. You come home to you brother screaming, hitting your mother as she lies prone on the floor. You drag him off and he starts crying. Maybe you should be trying to calm him down but you are too focused on the pool of blood around your mother’s head and the funny angle of her arm. You grab a towel from the kitchen and press it to her scalp. She feels cold in your arms, but that might just be you. You call an ambulance with shaking hands but you can’t even concentrate enough to talk to the operator. It’s difficult to think after that. Difficult to consider that your brother has ran upstairs, that he isn’t shouting or crying or smashing things, that it’s dangerously quiet. You can’t think on any of that.

You are nineteen years old. It’s the Garda who turn up first. They ask if they is anyone else in the house. They ask you a few times, actually, even though you keep on telling them that your brother is here. Or maybe you don’t tell them. There’s a lot of blood on your hands. Then the second officer comes back down. He whispers something in her ear, and she radios for an ambulance. Not the blues, she says. You tell her that you rang for an ambulance already. She doesn’t answer, but she does sit beside you. She asks for your name. Jack Weston, you tell her. 

Your brother is dead, Jack, she says. You wonder if maybe you are too.

 

You are twenty years old. You mother requires twenty four hour care, which your father pays for, even if he doesn’t visit. Some days are worse than others. She still slurs her words. The scars on her skin has faded, but the one on her brain remains.

 

You are twenty two years old. You have graduated with a first from university. You have not seen your father since your brother’s funeral. He is not here today, but you don’t care, much. In the crowd, however, is your mother, and she stands on her own when she claps for you. It is the greatest achievement from the last three years.

You are twenty two years old. You could practise law and earn thousands. You submit the application for the Garda. It’s not the one from all those years ago from your father, that’s pinned to your wall, but there’s still something important about it. It’s as though a part of you is complete. The thought of Rose Harris doesn’t even occur. The idea that out there, somewhere, is your daughter, starting her first day at school, is beyond comprehensible.

 

You are twenty seven years old, and have just moved to London with the promise of a promotion, if diagonally. In the end, policing is much the same anywhere. You have no idea your daughter lives less than  five miles away for the first time in over a decade.

 

You are twenty eight years old when you meet Rose Harris again. You don’t recognise her at first, it’s dark and loud in the club and you’re more than a little tipsy. It’s the stag-do of one of your uni mates. He’s trying to remember all the finer aspects of Comparative Law to prove a point, but it’s only proving that he’s very drunk. This seems a call to approach the bar, and it’s your turn.

You are twenty eight years old. You don’t recognise Rose Harris at first, but you do see that spark in her eyes when she sees you. What can I get you for? She asks. You remember at the accent. Sure, there’s a lot of people out there with a Belfast accent but not a lot of them look like her. Rose? You ask, incredulous. You are twenty eight years old, but suddenly you remember what it was like to be fifteen again, riding your bike and acting stupid. Hi Jack, she replies.

You are twenty eight years old, and it’s freezing outside. Rose is taking a smoke break and you have one too. It sobers you up, somewhat. You ask her how she’s been, it’s a bit awkward but you fall back into patterns quickly enough. There’s something holding you back. You tell her that your brother is dead. She responds in kind. She tells you about the bar and her boyfriend Stan and is very much leaving something out, but you don’t ask what it is. You tell her about university and the Garda and the London Met. Just like your da, huh? She laughs. You were always going to be a copper, she tells you. You think to yourself, you were always going to be a criminal. Rose finishes her cigarette, and goes to work. You say goodbye to your mates, and go home. You don’t go back to the pub again.

You are twenty eight years old. You daughter is now twelve. If you knew she existed, you would be surprised to know that she knows you name. But you don’t, and you go home to an empty flat.

 

You are thirty two years old. You have just met the girl Rose says is your daughter. You’re not sure if you believe it yet. Her name is Lucy, and she is sixteen years old. She shakes your hand and smiles nervously. It does nothing to ease the guilt when you arrest her mother for child trafficking and murder. Still. She waits for you that evening, and you spend the following hours talking awkwardly in a subpar twenty four hour café. 

You are thirty two years old. That night, you go to bed knowing that the teenager asleep in your guest room might be your daughter. Your not sure if you want it to be true or not. The reality in which you abandoned this child to a upbringing surrounded by crime weighs heavily. You turn off the light, and try your best to ignore the dark. 

 

You are thirty two years old. You have just discovered that Lucy is your own flesh and blood. You have just discovered that she is missing too, and it’s as though sixteen years worth of love and agony explodes in you in once. It’s amazing how easily you run to keep her safe. 

 

You are thirty two years old. The daughter you have known for three days is leaving for witness protection. Before the start of the week you didn’t know she existed. Now you cannot imagine existing without her. She has not died, and yet you grieve. 

 

You are thirty three years old. The danger has passed, and your daughter has returned. She stands on your doorstep with an outstretched hand. 

Hi, she says, I’m Lucy Harris. Your daughter. 

You smile and shake it. Welcome home, you tell her. 

It only took sixteen years, she laughs. It’s not serious, but you are. 

It shouldn’t have been any. 

She shrugs. Somehow, I forgive you. 

You don’t have to, you tell her. 

I know. I want to.

Your heart lifts. 

You are thirty three years old. Your daughter has taken to calling you dad as often as possible. You can’t call her out on it though, because you’ll take any opportunity to refer to your daughter. After all, that would make you a hypocrite. 

**Author's Note:**

> I love the idea of Lucy living with Jack post series five. I'm here for families.


End file.
